Adirondack haiku

At dawn in the campground, “The Sound of Music” on a flute. I’m plotting murder.

Squatting to pluck puffballs from a stump, her raincoat pale in the dark woods.

Never mind how you got here. Just sit, O glacial erratic.

At the back of the store, a free view of the stormy lake moving three ways at once.

Not far from John Brown’s grave, a state prison looms above the larch.

When I open the Adirondack pages of my notebook, two grains of sand fall out.